


Holding Water in your Hands

by xxx_cat_xxx



Series: Red in my Ledger [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (mentioned) - Freeform, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Natasha Romanov, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, James "Rhodey" Rhodes is a Good Bro, Natasha & Rhodey Friendship, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, Natasha is not okay, Protective James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Self-Harm, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, The missing five years, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 00:57:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20322451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxx_cat_xxx/pseuds/xxx_cat_xxx
Summary: “What’s going on, Nat?” Rhodey's voice is awfully warm and understanding. It makes her feel sick.“Nothing. What should be going on?” she spits.“You’re a mess.” He looks her up and down, taking in her unwashed hair, the rings under her eyes, the stench of sweat, the dirty clothes.-or-During the missing five years, Natasha is holding position at the empty Avengers compound and trying to hold herself together. Rhodey finds her on a bad day.





	Holding Water in your Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the five years in between and although all we’ve ever gotten of Nat and Rhodey were like two minutes of screentime, [their friendship](https://xxx-cat-xxx.tumblr.com/post/186840066212/buckyrhodey-take-care-okay) is a fact for me.
> 
> TW for self-harm and general bad mental health as well as questionable coping strategies. Major thanks to [Whumphoarder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whumphoarder/pseudswhumphoarder) for beta reading.

“Faster.”

Nat’s feet are hitting the treadmill in a steady rhythm, the gym around her blurring before her eyes.

“Faster.”

“The security parameters recommend not to exceed a speed of-” 

“Faster!” she interrupts the AI’s voice.

The treadmill increases its speed, and Nat’s legs now have to truly struggle to keep up. It’s hurting, each step reverberating through her body like a beat, a slap, something painful and real. Her breath is burning in her lungs, each one a struggle, the muscles in her abdomen stabbing and begging her to stop, and for a minute she doesn’t think about anything else because the pain is so _good_-

“Nat!”

She spins around, and it’s only the fact that her legs seem to have disconnected from the rest of her body and keep moving on autopilot that prevents her from falling off the device altogether. She stumbles, then jumps down sideways and hits the ground with a painful twist in her ankle, panting hard.

“What the fuck, Nat?” Rhodey is standing in the entry, still in his battle clothes. His face is a mixture of surprise and concern. “What the hell was that about? You trying to break your legs?”

“What are you doing here?” she snaps. She’s struggling to catch her breath and focus her eyes on him. The room is spinning slightly, like her brain hasn’t caught up with the fact that she isn’t moving anymore. “You weren’t supposed to be back before tomorrow.”

“The suspects surrendered before we even had to attack.” Rhodey shrugs. “I tried to call you to let you know I was coming, but apparently you were a little busy.” He nods to the machine.

“Yeah. I was.”

She makes to brush past him and get out of the door, but halfway through the room her vision starts to swim. Her knees grow weak and she stumbles heavily into him.

“Whoa.” Rhodey staggers, his leg braces having trouble adjusting to the sudden weight. “Okay, I’ve got you.”

“I’m good,” she protests as he lowers her to the ground, “Get off me.”

“Always happy to help,” he snarks back, but there’s more worry than anger. “God, Nat, you can’t do that to your body.”

“I was _training_,” she emphasis, realising too late that her defensive tone is just making it worse.

“That wasn’t training, that was madness.”

Nat starts to reply, but the breath catches in her still-too-dry lungs and she descends into a painful coughing fit that doesn’t stop until Rhodey hands her a water bottle. She takes a sip, coughs again, then waits for the fire in her lungs to subside and her racing heart to slow down.

“What’s going on, Nat?” His voice is awfully warm and understanding. It makes her feel sick.

“Nothing. What should be going on?” she spits.

“You’re a mess.” He looks her up and down, taking in her unwashed hair, the rings under her eyes, the stench of sweat, the dirty clothes. “The office is a mess. It looks like Tony moved back in.”

“Don’t compare me to Stark.”

“Oh, you and him can be quite similar. Workaholism, chronic lack of sleep, and unhealthy coping strategies masked by sarcasm? Spot-on Tony.”

She doesn’t bother to reply and instead takes another sip from the bottle. It settles uneasily in her stomach. She feels too hot despite the small shivers running through her, sweat now starting to drip down her temples and her armpits, gathering in between her breasts. _Disgusting_, that’s the word. She’s disgusted by herself.

“You should get out of the compound for a while,” Rhodey suggests. “Talk to people instead of holing yourself up in here.”

“I’m working.” 

“Yeah, and you need a break from that. A vacation, definitely.”

“Then who’s gonna hold position here?”

“Nat.” She stops him by holding up her hand. It’s not like she doesn’t know what he’s thinking, like she hasn’t gone over it again and again herself before actively trying everything to shut her brain up. That the Avengers are gone, over, dead. That it doesn’t make a difference whether she sits at HQ all day or not. That she’s holding on to an illusion, trying to catch seawater with her bare hands. That it’s futile. But she can’t let him say it, because if he does, if she is forced to accept the truth, there will really be nothing left for her to hold on to. 

“You know that you’re always welcome at Tony’s and Pepper’s?” Rhodey’s voice has softened now.

Nat snorts sarcastically. “Sure.”

“I mean it. They’ve been asking about you. You haven’t been there since the wedding. You haven’t even met Morgan yet.”

“I don’t like kids.”

“Oh, I heard different things from the Bartons.”

It stings. It stings so hard that Nat feels tears welling up, just for a second, until she gets herself back under control. 

“Sorry,” Rhodey says, looking guilty. “I’m just, I’m worried about you, okay?”

“No need,” Nat rebuts, her voice hoarse and her nose a bit blocked.

“You’re running yourself down. Hurting yourself.”

She reacts by twisting her arms inside involuntarily. It’s completely stupid, but she can’t help herself, feeling exposed all of the sudden.

He catches the movement, grabs her wrists and turns them around so the cuts are clearly visible. They’re short, but deep enough that droplets of blood have run down her arm and dried there, leaving a broken trail of red. She twists her hands back briskly to break his grip and pulls them towards her chest. 

“What happened there?” Rhodey demands.

“Broke a plate,” she lies without changing her expression. Part of her almost wishes that he’d see through it. That someone would catch her, one day - would realise how much it’s hurting without her having to say the words. Someone who wouldn’t judge, just understand.

But at the same time she’s deadly afraid of it.

“I see.” Rhodey’s expression is stony.

“Don’t you have shit to do?” She picks her rudest voice.

He just looks at her. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”

“I don’t want it.” The mere thought of food makes her sick, although the flickering in front of her eyes and the thudding pain in her head tell her that she probably needs to boost her blood sugar.

“What do you want, then?” Rhodey asks earnestly.

She wants to sleep, but she knows that lying down is the worst thing she could do, that it will only cause the thoughts to be too loud to block out. Last time she tried that, she ended up with a knife in her hands, blood on her forearms, puking vodka into the stupid flower pots in the frontyard.

She wants to get back on the treadmill and exercise more, run and run and run until she can outrun the thoughts, the desperation, the goddamn heaviness in her chest that’s been weighing her down ever since that horrible day in Wakanda. She’s tried, but she’s never managed to be fast enough. It looks like her race with depression is one that she cannot win.

She wants something to hit her so hard that it just knocks herself out of her head. A meteor would be good, a medium-sized moon or a fucking planet like the one Thanos threw at Tony back on Titan. Unconsciousness would be bliss right now, but it’s nothing she can give to herself. The pain she receives by cutting her arms is just a sliver, an approximation, and despite the small relief it gives her, it mostly feels like she’s cheating. It’s not real - she doesn’t deserve it. She wonders whether she could ask Rhodey to temporarily knock her out, just to get some hours of without having to_ think_, or whether she could provoke him enough that he does it out of anger. 

“Nat?” He places a hand on her arm and this time she hesitates a bit before shaking it off. It’s so tempting. Just someone to hold her, someone who cares, someone to take the responsibility off her shoulders for just a moment.

But no. She doesn’t do that. Shouldn’t want this. She’s let go of that desire a long time ago, and it was the right thing to do so. Clint has proved that once and for all.

“Get yourself a sandwich. You must be hungry.” She gives him a tightlipped smile and gets back to her feet. Her vision clouds again, but this time she’s prepared and has herself back under control before the swaying can give it away. “I’ll go take a shower.”

It’s a lie - the energy she’d need for that is far beyond her. But hopefully it will be enough to get him off her back. 

She makes it to the elevator before her low blood sugar protests and she sinks down against the wall, fighting against the pull of dizziness. “Fuck,” she curses, blinking away tears. Tears of anger at her own stupidity, her own weakness, her inability to just be _okay_ for once. Everyone’s lost people. And they got a grip on their lives. What the fuck is wrong with her?

Rhodey finds her two minutes later, walking down the corridor as if by chance although his room lies in the opposite direction. He must have developed a sixth sense for people who won’t call for help. Being a friend of Tony Stark probably does that to you. 

This time he doesn’t say anything, just looks down at her disgusting, pathetic state with a raised eyebrow and those warm dark eyes. Nat bites her lip and raises her chin. Part of her wants to beat that expression out of his face, but she doesn’t have the energy. Another part, one that fills her with shame and self-hatred, wants to reach out and hug him. 

“Listen,” Rhodey says. “I get it that you don’t want to talk to me, and we don’t have to. I know Steve would come running if he could, but he’s not in the country and I can’t think of anyone else to call. Can you?”

She stays silent, stubbornly. Quite telling that the group of people that would once upon a time willingly have taken care of her has reduced to a single national icon.

“Thought so. I understand you want to be alone, but I can’t let you pass out on the floor. You have to eat and drink something, and then you have to rest. So, your room or the common area?”

He says it as if there was still actually anything _common_ about it, as if it wasn’t a ghost room like all the others that is occasionally used by Nat for reruns of Dexter and drying her laundry. Nat can’t bring herself to care, but then she thinks of the empty Vodka bottles on the floor in her room and the array of knives in the bathroom and about a dozen other things that he shouldn’t see and decides it’s best to stay away from there. 

“Common area,” she replies, hating how her voice comes out in a croak. He extends a hand and she lets him help her up.

They settle on the couch in front of the ridiculously huge TV and Rhodey starts to run _Kill Bill_ in the background. Nat manages to eat half a sandwich before the nausea in her stomach forces her to stop for a while. 

When Rhodey seems sure that she’s no longer in any danger of passing out, he goes for a shower before returning in jeans and t-shirt and rejoining her on the couch. Nat should probably clean herself up, knowing that the scent of her now-dried sweat can’t be pleasant, but she can’t bring herself to get up. He offers her a bag of peanuts he’s dug out of who-knows-where. 

“Feeling any better?”

She shrugs. It’s not even a lie this time; she genuinely doesn’t have an answer. Her body is always tired, always hurting, and although it shouldn’t, that hurt mostly seems like something desirable rather than something to be avoided. Her moods vary between actively wanting to feel as much pain as possible and not wanting to feel anything at all. It’s there even now, the desire for hurt, but it’s duller now with Rhodey in the room and the satisfying aftermath of exercise burning through her muscles. 

“How long will you stay?” she asks with a sideways glance. Rhodey has an apartment in the city and usually only comes to the compound for debriefings, occasionally crashing in his old room for a night or two when the missions are too exhausting. 

It’s his turn to shrug now. “I got the rest of the week off, so let’s see.” He stares at the screen where Uma Thurman slices up a body. “Can help you tidy up here tomorrow.”

Nat’s first impulse is to be offended - the office is looking just fine, considering that she is basically heading world defense on her own, and in a much better state than her own room (or than it had ever been when Tony had been working there). Rhodey seems to sense that he said something wrong, because he adds:

“We could visit the shooting range, it’s been a while.” 

Nat and Rhodey share a love for good guns and had a habit of occasionally training together during the time when the whole team used to live at the compound. Steve liked boxing more than shooting, Tony was always more intrigued by upgrading the weapons than actually using them, and Thor decried anything involving targeting people from afar as he thought it unfair battle strategy. The only one who’d join them occasionally would be Clint, who always preferred his bow and arrow above guns but trained for the practicality of it. He and Rhodey would compete for second place after Nat (with Clint letting Rhodey win every other time to keep his spirits up), but _no_, Nat is not thinking of that now. 

She’s going to make it through the night without falling apart. She’s going to clean up. She’s going to train. She’s going to get her shit together. 

She’s told this to herself countless times over the past months, and it’s always turned out to be just another broken promise. But Rhodey is looking at her expectantly, and while she can’t bring herself to open up to him, she can’t let him down either.

“Deal,” she says.

Rhodey actually dozes off after a while, completely unfazed by the shoot-out currently happening on the TV screen. Nat feels herself drift as well, her thoughts slow like heavy rain clouds. If Rhodey doesn’t wake, if the movie doesn’t end, if she stays right here and doesn’t let the thoughts wander anywhere else, she feels like sleep might actually be a possibility tonight. It’s an awful lot of ifs, but it’s more than she usually has.  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are always appreciated. This is also a fill for my Bad Things Happen Bingo square "Sleep Deprivation". 
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://xxx-cat-xxx.tumblr.com).


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